That Time the World Almost Ended
by Mandelene
Summary: It's not every day that one gets to travel back in time to stop the nuclear apocalypse from destroying all of human civilization as we know it, but challenge accepted. It's up to America's strength, England's brain power, and Japan's sixth sense to rewrite the future.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! This story was requested by **heart-spade** on my Tumblr blog. It features the nations with various superpowers. Hopefully, I do it justice and don't completely mess this up, haha! Enjoy and please leave a review if you can, as I always appreciate them! I could also use any constructive criticism you guys might have.

P.S. Expect lots of updates in the coming weeks, since I'm on break! Happy almost holidays!

* * *

 _"Sometimes I go off, I go hard. Get what's mine, I'm a star."_

"Mmrughh."

" _Cause I slay, I slay… All day…"_

"Beyoncé, not now… Shut up, phone."

 _"Okay, ladies, now let's get in formation."_

Who the _hell_ is calling him in the middle of the night? He needs his beauty rest.

Intending to go off on someone, America chucks his pillow across the room hard enough to actually leave a small dent on the opposite wall and brings his phone up to his ear, eyes half-shut and burning from crippling exhaustion. He's been subjected to conference after conference lately, and on his _one_ night off, someone has the nerve to disturb him.

"This better be important," he growls into the receiver.

"Sir, we're under attack."

America is so tired someone could tell him he's on fire, and he wouldn't be fazed in the least. "Uh-huh. Gotcha. I'll call you in the morning."

"Sir!"

He hangs up the phone, let's his head collide with his fluffy, bouncy, wonderfully sweet mattress and—.

Did the Secretary of State just tell him what he thinks he did?

Hastily, America scrambles into a sitting position and calls back. After a single ring, someone picks up.

"Did you say we're under attack?"

"Yes, sir. The Russians have launched an ICBM set to hit California."

"How long do we have?"

"Twenty-nine minutes and fifteen seconds."

"Shit! Fuck! Shit, fuck, shit!" America shouts. "What're you doing sitting around calling me for? Have we launched our own missiles yet?"

"We're awaiting clearance from the President any second now. He'll then be brought to the underground shelter. You need to get down here."

"No. Don't worry about me," America retorts, a cold sweat beading his neck. He hangs up the phone again and stares blankly at the wall for a good three seconds—three seconds he can't afford to waste.

All right. Don't panic. Twenty-eight minutes now. Think, think. If only he had more time… Time! That's it!

With impeccable intuition as usual, his phone chirps out another ringtone—the ringtone he has set for England, " _Hello, it's me… I was wondering if after all these years—"_

Of course his old man across the pond would be the one to call him first.

America picks it up. "Hey, you limey. We've got trouble."

"I'm well aware. Scotland is about to be completely obliterated in seven minutes," England says by way of introduction, and although his tone is firm, America can tell he's terrified.

"You're under attack, too? What does Russia want with you?"

"The missiles aren't Russian. Well, actually… We aren't sure. They appear to be French, and while I loathe France, and he shares my sentiments, I daresay he wouldn't resort to killing me, and when I called him to ask him what the bleeding hell he was playing at, he was in a panic and had no idea what I was talking about, which suggests someone infiltrated his weapons. Someone was aiming for London and missed by several hundred kilometers, and in that regard, perhaps it _was_ France, what with his horrible aim. The actual launch occurred somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic from a French military base. Furthermore, India has already hit Pakistan as we speak in the midst of the commotion. Israel is likely to make a move next."

America frowns. God help the person who started this once he finds them. "England, you know what has to be done next, right?"

There's a moment of bated silence on the other line before England releases a heavy-hearted sigh. "Yes, of course, though I wish there were another way. You know how much I despise playing with time."

"You don't have a choice."

"I know, but that doesn't make the decision any easier. I can't possibly do this alone."

"Come and get me then. After all, you've got all the time you need. Just hop back in time, catch a flight, then, fast forward again. Oh, and don't go too far back. You remember what happened last time," America warns the man, cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms before dragging himself out of bed and standing. "A week should be plenty once you round me up."

England hangs up the phone, and no more than five seconds later, he calls again.

"Ello, governor," America answers with an atrociously exaggerated British accent.

"I _know_ you can do better than that. I remember a time when you spoke proper English. Oh, what a swell era that was, but then you had to ruin it by 'losing' your accent and speaking in that silly tone you use now. Also, I'm on your doorstep."

America snorts. "Yeah, whatever. American English makes more sense phonetically, and you know it. Gimme a sec while I change out of my bunny slippers and Batman PJs. Can't go on an adventure looking like this."

"Hurry up, you dolt. It's freezing out here."

"Yeah, well, you came to Washington in the middle of December, dude. What did you expect? It's not any better in Europe, so I don't want to hear any complaining or you're getting sent straight to Canada… And don't rush me! It takes time to look this fabulous."

"America!"

If the world's going to end anyway, they might as well share one last round of banter, America thinks with a devilish smile, changing into some jeans and a sweatshirt. Can't forget his gloves, hat, and scarf either… He hops into a pair of boots, zips himself into the goose-feather filled coat Canada got him last Christmas, and grabs his keys, wallet, and a small backpack for any other things they might end up having to carry along with them.

"If you aren't out here in ten seconds—!" England snarls on the other side of the front door.

Rolling his eyes, America finally strolls outside with a good-natured chuckle at England's expense. "You'll huff, and you'll puff, and you'll blow this house down!" he finishes for the other nation cheekily. "You can't take me over your knee anymore, England. I'm two hundred and forty years old."

"Don't test me," England hisses back, watching impatiently as America goes about locking the door.

"Ahh, it's been a while since we've been able to hang out like this, old man. It's nice."

"Who're you calling old, Mr. I'm-Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Years-Old?"

"I know, right? I'm so young. Still a baby. I've got the best years of my life ahead of me. You, not so much," America smoothly replies before latching onto England's arm. "Let's go."

Needing no prompting, England shuts his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and suddenly, the world contorts and twists in time and space around them in a flurry of miraculous color and sparks. It makes America a bit dizzy, and he feels a sensation of falling before everything stops and time ticks along normally again.

They are still in front of America's house, and it's still three o'clock in the freaking morning, but it's a few degrees warmer now, and where there should have been snow, the concrete of the sidewalk is visible and dry.

They've gone back in time by precisely one week.

"Aww, and I thought that was the last time I'd have to suffer through my five o'clock meeting," America whines, remembering this particular Monday all too well.

"Forget your meeting. We need to find out who put us on the brink of a nuclear apocalypse and make certain they won't do it again."

"And how do you plan to do that, Sherlock?"

England looks down at his feet in deep thought, bushy brows knitting together to form what America likes to call the man's super-brow. "We need to get all of the nations with nuclear capabilities in one place at the same time, interrogate them discreetly, and try to narrow down the possibilities."

"Dude, it was Russia. It's always Russia. Every time a plane magically falls out of the sky or a body goes missing, it's Russia, and this isn't any different," America concludes, crossing his arms over his chest.

"It couldn't have been Russia. The missiles heading for me were launched first, and as I've already told you, they most certainly weren't Russian."

"Yeah, but he probably sent somebody to push the button for him. You said France's weapon stocks were likely infiltrated. That could mean it was anyone, even a nation without nuclear capabilities."

"Yes, you're right," England admits with a groan, pressing a hand against his temple. "So what now? And, by God's grace, fix your scarf. It's lopsided."

Without laying a finger on America, England straightens the scarf out simply by staring at the offending fabric and willing it to move with his eyes.

America stiffens considerably in response. "I forgot you could do that whole moving stuff with your mind thing. Like, I know I've got super strength and that can be pretty intimidating to most people, too, but your literal mind games scare the crap outta me. You need to calm down and be a bit more low-key, if you don't mind."

England gives him a flat look and pivots to a different subject matter. "Let's schedule an emergency conference. That'll give us the chance to perhaps explain the situation to a few allies we trust, and they can help gather more information for us. It's not much, but it's a start."

"All right. We've got a week to figure this out before the globe explodes. I'll call up my people, get them to cancel that stupid five o'clock meeting and the one after that and tell them we need to set up a nice get-together to discuss an emergency with North Korea or something. While I'm doing that, get us on the earliest plane heading for New York, because we need to get to the UN headquarters. The flight will give us a few hours to think, and I'll be able to draft a speech," America decides, making a mental checklist.

"Who would've thought you could prove to be rational in such a dire situation?"

America blinks, quite baffled. "I think that was almost a compliment. Wow. We should hang out during the brink of human extinction more often."

* * *

There are some powers no man or creature should possess. America knows this, but he also knows if he doesn't choose to play with the dangerous toys, someone else will.

"How does this sound? Ahem… We've gathered here this morning to discuss the serious threat North Korea poses to our international security. He has taken new steps toward acquiring a nuclear weapon."

England raises a brow, attention half-occupied by something on his phone. "That'll do. It's just vague enough. Remember to draw out the speech for as long as possible. After the first fifteen minutes of having to listen to your grating voice, everyone will lose interest, and we'll be able to call for an intermission. We should split up our investigation by speaking to the rest of the Security Council first. I'll handle France, and you can deal with China and Russia."

America lets out a petulant whine of protest. "Can't you talk to Russia? The moment I see him, I'll start raging. He could've annihilated my whole west coast."

England sets his phone aside and makes sure to take on the role of devil's advocate. "Only because he expected an attack from you."

"That's the least convincing lie you've ever told. He's out to get me even after all of these years. I can never let my guard down around him."

"You're simply paranoid, as is he."

"Am not."

"Are, too," England counters, and in the centuries they've known each other, their senseless arguing hasn't changed either.

"I'm not the one who's trigger-happy."

England outright laughs at that, shoulders shaking. "No, you're a pacifist, America. You always have been."

"Don't be sarcastic with me! I'm serious! I'm not trying to pick any fights."

"You've never taken responsibility for your actions," England adds under his breath before snatching the handful of papers in America's hands to skim them. After a few seconds, he gives them a small nod of appraisal. "But, all right, if you can't bring yourself to have a civilized conversation with the man, then I will."

America pretends not to have heard that last snarky comment. "Just don't look into his eyes. He does that freaky mind-reading hypnotization thing or whatever. Even if you only glance at him for a second, he'll know your motives for talking to him."

England scoffs and picks a piece of lint off of the black, business-casual sweater he's wearing over his shirt and tie. They've both changed since leaving America's house, and while England could make a t-shirt and joggers look formal, America still looks ragged and slightly unkempt no matter how much effort he puts into trying to be presentable.

"Excuse me, but I've known Russia far longer than you have, and I can handle myself around him," England insists.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," America sings mockingly in return, taking his papers back.

Time to play politics.

* * *

One by one, the nations are directed through mandatory security and cross the threshold of their designated conference room for the day, treating themselves to coffee, tea, and muffins.

It's all fine and dandy, but America watches each of them with the gaze of a hawk, particularly where Russia is concerned. Russia seems to know he's being watched, but he pointedly ignores America. He can't be trusted. He's probably plotting world domination this very second.

"Hey, America."

Startled, America flinches and looks around him for the source of the friendly greeting, but as he spins around in a full circle, he doesn't see anyone standing close enough to him to have been the speaker.

He worries he imagined the sound, or worse, perhaps it was a ghost, but then realization washes over him and he relaxes, searching the air in front of him calmly. "Canada, bro, you're invisible again."

The timid voice returns. "Am I? Oh, I'm sorry."

It takes a few moments, but Canada finally materializes in front of America with a sheepish smile. "I'm really sorry. I can't control it sometimes."

America claps a hand onto his twin's back with a little too much force and grins. "It's okay, man. No worries."

Canada swallows thickly and nods. "So, uhh, does North Korea really have a nuclear weapon?"

America mentally kicks himself. He can't lie to Canada. In fact, he has only lied to his brother nation a handful of times, and every time he has gotten away with it, he's ended up overwrought with guilt.

England has made it clear he doesn't want anyone to know about the impending apocalypse yet, and so, America racks his brain and replies with, "Ahh, it'll be fine. I'll protect you, my dude."

"But—"

"You don't have to worry, okay?"

Canada sighs and lets his question stay unanswered.

"You're sitting to my left today. Grab some coffee and chill for a bit while I go check up on China."

Before Canada can respond, America slips away and heads straight for where Japan and China are quietly chatting on the opposite side of the room.

"Whoa, there," America remarks as he approaches them. "I haven't seen you guys together like this in a while. Everything all right?"

Japan becomes visibly nervous and flushed. "America," he says with a short bow. "There is a new videogame I recently developed for you to try."

"Oh, yeah? Sounds great! Sorry I haven't been able to visit lately. Things have been busy, y'know?"

"Umm… Yes, that is understandable."

"So what are you and China up to?" America asks with gentle insistence, smile still glued to his mouth.

China jumps in and says, "I was just saying how my tea is superior to Japan's."

Japan frowns and looks somewhat irritated, but his social awareness keeps him from letting it affect his polite tone. "Actually, we were talking about North Korea."

"Oh, okay. Makes sense. We're all a little uneasy because of him, right? I mean the thought of nuclear conflict—it sure would be awful, huh?" America says casually, not missing the way Japan seems to pale at his words. "You feeling okay, Japan?"

"Yes, yes," Japan immediately assures, and America is beginning to get a sense of why he's acting so strange.

"Cool, then. Hey, China, would you mind if I borrowed Japan for a sec?"

China gives America a skeptical look but eventually shrugs his shoulders. "Go ahead."

"Thanks, dude. You're the best."

And with that, America leads a very skittish and jittery Japan out of the conference room and pulls him aside, eyes hard and frighteningly serious. "No one can know."

"I'm sorry, America, but I do not—"

"No one can know," America repeats. "You had a vision, didn't you?"

He's well aware of Japan's psychic powers, but they're only right about seventy-five percent of the time, and they can be altered easily over time.

Japan turns his head away upon being caught. Seeing the future is not something he always enjoys. "Yes."

"So you know what's going to happen next Monday?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who starts it?"

"No. I do not have those details. I can just see… destruction," Japan admits. "Is that why we're truly at this meeting?"

"Yeah, England and I are on it. Don't tell anyone else. For all they know, we're just voting for more sanctions on North Korea today, and we want it to stay that way, until we have more info. So, sit tight and let us handle it. Did you tell China about it?"

"No, but I was considering it."

"Okay. Don't tell him. He may have been the one to launch the first missile for all we know."

"It wasn't China," Japan retorts.

"How do you know?"

"I do not know how, but I am certain."

America nods, gives Japan's shoulder a comforting squeeze, and steps away. "Thanks for the help. Let us know if you find out anything else, or if your vision gets clearer."

"Okay, but, America, how did _you_ know?"

"It's a long story," America sighs, disappearing into the conference room again. It's nearly time for him to give his opening speech.

He takes his seat next to Canada, ruffles his brother's hair, and then suddenly glowers at the empty chair to his right. Where has England gone off to? He's normally punctual, and the meeting officially starts in two minutes.

He scans the rest of the room, takes a quick headcount, and narrows his eyes when he discovers Russia is missing as well.

Should he start the meeting without them? England would probably want him to, but then again, he can't let England ever have what he wants—it's against America's personal religion.

He announces they'll be starting fifteen minutes later than expected and rushes out of the room and down into the hall, searching intently for the missing pair. He knew he shouldn't have let England deal with Russia alone.

After checking room after room without any luck, he begins to feel a sense of growing panic. What if Russia kidnapped England? What if England's hurt? What if…? Oh, God. Oh, God.

The sound of echoing voices from a room at the end of the hall grabs his attention, and he darts toward it, heart racing because he can _feel_ something isn't right.

"England?" he asks as he pushes the door open, and in the chair in the middle of the room, there the man is, blond head dipped backward and eyes blank.

Towering over him is Russia, eyes glowing wildly as he whispers some sort of strange enchantment. Hypnosis—one of Russia's more horrible abilities.

"Get away from him!" America demands before striding forward and using his superhuman strength to plow Russia into the wall as though he weighs little more than a paperweight. "Only I get to mess with England."

Russia grabs America by the throat in response, and so, America grabs him back, tossing them both to the ground. Russia is fairly strong himself, but not strong enough because America pries his hands away from his neck and pins them to the floor with crushing, sheer force. He can feel one or two of Russia's bones snap, and he's just about to be the inarguable victor when the world tilts on itself in a familiar way, and America is transported back in time again.

When he rights himself and gets to his feet, Russia is no longer in the conference room with them, and instead, England stands breathlessly by his side.

They exchange glares, and then England slaps America sharply over the back of the head.

America touches the sore spot once England stops assaulting him. "That's the thanks I get for saving you?"

"You nearly started a second Cold War, idiot!" England screams at him, raising his arm to slap him again, but America grabs his wrist midair and stops him.

"What was I supposed to do?"

"I should've done this alone."

"Oh, okay, so are you saying you don't need my help now? Fine. Be that way. It's not like you almost got possessed by Russia or anything. No, sir! You had it all under control, didn't you? You were going to collapse while the world slowly ended around you!"

In the midst of their fighting, they fail to recognize someone else has entered the room, until it's too late.

"The world is ending?" a childish voice asks, and America and England freeze.

England turns his head around to look at the intruder first, and he's so angry his face and ears are completely painted red with frustration. "Sealand!"

"What's going on?" Sealand asks innocently, hands clasped behind his back as he rocks on his heels. "I'm an independent nation, so I need to know…"

England surges forward, and Sealand tries to run away, but the elder nation snakes his arms around the child's waist and holds him up several inches off of the ground with a severe frown. "What are you doing here? This is no place for a child."

"I'm here for the emergency conference."

"You're going to take yourself home _this instant_ , Sealand!"

"But I—!"

"Go home."

"You can't tell me what to do!"

America smirks dryly at the two, remembering all too well how he used to annoy England to wit's end when he was still a colony. He, too, wanted nothing more but to be regarded as an equal.

"C'mon, kid," he interrupts. "Let's get you some of the awesome snacks in the conference room, and you can sit in on the meeting for a while, 'kay? My treat as the host."

England sets Sealand down and frowns impressively at America while mumbling something about "incorrigible children." He slaps America over the head one last time and heads for the exit before pausing to say, "Russia is not of interest to us."

America scowls. "Seriously? After all of that—!"

"It's not him. Let it go. None of this happened."

And England's right. It didn't happen. He made sure of that when he rewound time.

Back to the drawing board, then.

"America?" Sealand asks with big eyes. "Can I sit next to you during the meeting?"

"Sure! Why not? You can have England's seat," America says, shooting England a taunting look as they leave. "You'll make a good replacement."

It'll be a miracle if they fix this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note** : Thanks for sticking with me and being so wonderfully helpful, everyone! I hope you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

It's customary for absolutely nothing to be accomplished at world meetings, and today isn't any different. There's a lot of talk about nothing in particular, and there's nothing of substance to be achieved at this "emergency conference." America couldn't get two dozen nations to agree on what to have for lunch even if he personally offered to pay for everyone's meals, and so, he doesn't cross his fingers for their hearts to change any time soon.

He'd hoped he and England would at least have a few legitimate leads by now. Yet, they aren't sure of anything. The missiles launched at Scotland from that French military base may not have even been the first attack, but it's weird and inexplicable, which is why they've been clutching onto the one piece of strange happenstance that seemed like the key at first, but could very well be a red herring.

The conference ends with a dismal, dreary air, and America feels more than a little discouraged. He thinks maybe he should take a step back from all this madness for a while and let England do whatever he wants.

"Canada, bro, wanna go get some food with me?" he asks his twin, glad to see Canada hasn't become invisible again. He's controlling his power well for now.

Surprised at being given some attention, Canada jerks his head up and smiles. "Okay! Sure! What time is it?"

"Time to get a watch," America jokes. "Ten past five. Let's buy dinner."

Obligingly, Canada gathers his belongings and follows America toward the exit. They almost manage to sneak away without being seen, but then a body blocks the doorway.

"And where do you think you're going?" England asks, standing in front of them with crossed arms.

"Hi, England," Canada chimes merrily, diffusing the tension in the air.

"Hello, Canada, dear boy. It's wonderful to see you again. I tried the cake recipe you gave me. It was splendid."

America looks between the two nations and strains a smile. "That's great, man. If you don't mind, Canada and I are gonna grab a bite to eat."

England battles with the urge to scold America while also remaining polite in Canada's presence. "We have some unfinished business. Have you forgotten?"

"It can wait an hour, hmm? I just want to have dinner with my bro. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, but—"

"It's just dinner," America tries to appease him. They can go back to saving the world later, and there's no guarantee they _will_ save it. This could very well be his final meal with Canada, and he doesn't want to squander the opportunity. "I want to spend some time with him, y'know? Just in case we don't see each other for a while.

England finally seems to understand because his expression softens, and he steps aside. "All right. Call me as soon as you're both finished."

Canada strolls onward, oblivious, but as America leaves, he touches England's shoulder and says in a meek voice, "Thanks. He's not invisible to me."

"I never suggested he was," England replies just as softly, but the corners of his mouth are pinched with a mixture of pain and worry. "Go on, then, I have a frog to contact."

* * *

"—and then my PM said he's going to try to lower carbon emissions, but there's always some kind of political gridlock. You would know about that… Sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up… I'm glad you and Cuba are getting along again, though! It's important to put the past behind us, especially since the world is changing," Canada says as they're eating. "Wow, I can't remember the last time I talked this much. I'm sorry, it's been rude of me. How are _you_ doing, America?"

America pokes at an empanada on his plate and forces himself to smile. Normally he'd be devouring his meal—Mexican food is his favorite—but he has miraculously lost his appetite. Canada's being great company and is super talkative for once, but all America can do is think about next Monday.

"Al?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Of course! Ha-ha!"

Canada bites his lower lip and waits for America to say more. When he doesn't, he adds, "Is something wrong with the food? We can get the waitress to bring something else."

"No, no, I'm good, bro. I just… I've got a lot on my mind."

"Oh, did something happen between you and England?"

"No, why would you think that?"

"I don't know. You guys have been acting odd, like you're up to something."

America smiles more honestly. "Yeah, you're too analytical for your own good. We're okay, though. We'll figure things out. We always do, right?"

Canada nods brightly. "Yeah, definitely. Whatever it is, I'm sure you and England can work it out… It reminds me… When we were kids, you found a bird that fell out of its nest. It was just a baby, and you picked it up and held it in your palms, not even thinking twice about whether or not to help it. The little bird's wings were sticky with mud and grime, since it was raining, but you took it into the kitchen and swore you would fix it."

"England was getting dinner ready and was going to yell at you for tracking mud into the house, but then he saw you were holding the bird and took it from you with a gentleness that was unheard of for an empire. You guys gave it a bath, and then England put some kind of medicine on one of its wings and fed it water and puréed fruit. You stayed up all night with that bird to make sure it survived, and in the morning you, England, and I brought it back to its mother's nest in the tree in our yard."

"You remember all of that?" America asks. "We were so young then."

Canada rests his chin in his hands and smiles. "You guys managed to save a life back then, and I always believed you guys would be able to do it again and again."

America's throat tighten, and he fiddles with the edge of his napkin. Canada can't possibly know what's going on, but somehow, he has said the right words at exactly the right time.

America's phone rings. "It's England," he says with a sigh. "It's probably important, so I've gotta take this. Here's the money for our food. I hate to leave you hanging like this, bro, but duty calls, literally. It was so cool getting to talk to you, and we've got to hang out again soon. Love ya, okay?"

Kind and understanding as always, Canada nods and murmurs, "Love you, too. I'll see you around."

America gets up from the table, knees cracking in protest at the sudden movement after being seating for so long, and makes his way for the exit.

And Canada becomes invisible almost instantly now that no one is there to notice him.

* * *

It's a beautiful day out by all standards—blue skies and warm rays of sunlight in abundance. The winter chill is bitter, but there's something oddly soothing about the cold breeze today. America stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and lets out a long sigh, seeing his breath coil in the cold air. It's hard to believe that in just a few days, the world will be entirely different. The pizzeria across the street will be turned to ash. The parks, the playgrounds, the schools, the hospitals, the White House, the Capitol Building, the Supreme Court, and the millions of homes in his nation will be gone, and America doesn't know if he'll be able to save them in time.

He fishes his phone out and calls England back because if he doesn't reach out to him now, the man's blood pressure will skyrocket, and he'll have a stroke, leaving them trapped in this timeline.

"What's up, dude? Find anything new out?" America asks when he hears the sound of exasperated breathing on the other line.

"No, but I've informed France of the situation, and he has increased security measures across all of his weapon storages," England says with a ragged voice. "Where are you now?"

"Just walked out of the best Mexican restaurant in the neighborhood, man. Where are you?"

"I'm still at the UN."

"We need to talk. Come and meet me at the Starbucks on forty-seventh and third, 'kay? You sound a little off. Are you all right?"

"Hmm? Ahh, yes, I'm simply tired of all of this running around, but I'll be fine."

"Okay, take your time, old man. We've got plenty of it, thanks to you."

England must be tired, since he doesn't say a word in response to America's jibe. He lets out a soft grunt and hangs up, leaving America to stare at his phone screen with escalating concern.

He gets himself to the Starbucks, orders himself a latte, and sinks into the nearest chair, head drooping with disappointment. Now that he has a moment to himself, he has the chance to reflect on some tough thoughts. He always knew nuclear warfare was a possibility—an increasingly likely possibility—and so did everyone else, but why now? There hadn't been any warning. He thought it was an unspoken rule across all of the nations with nuclear weapons that they would never use them. So why now? Had he not been paying attention to the signs?

England walks through the door, rosy cheeked and shivering despite having been bundled up. He takes his mittens off and stows them in his messenger bag as he walks up to America, green eyes just as anxious as America's blue ones.

"Hey, there. You hungry? You haven't eaten anything all day. Let me at least buy you a sandwich and some tea," America suggests, gesturing with his head toward the menu hanging up on the wall.

"That's all right, my boy. I'll be fine."

My boy... England hasn't called him that in decades—not since he was delirious and almost crippled beyond repair during the blitzkreig. And before that, England only sparingly addressed him with such pet names—once or twice during the Civil War when America was the one lying in bed in horrific pain as his body felt like it was splitting in two, and before even that, England would've only called him "my boy" back in his colonial days, when England was more of a father to him, and it was the closest thing to family he'd ever had aside from his relationship with Canada.

To hear him use it again now is unnerving. It means he really is worried about what the future might bring, and so, he's allowing himself to stop being a grump.

"Come on, you'll think better if you have some food in you," America insists, standing up to order something on the elder nation's behalf.

England opens his mouth to argue, but he doesn't have the strength for it anymore. He obediently sits down across from America's chair and mumbles a quiet "thank you" when America places a toasted ham and cheese Panini and a large cup of earl grey tea in front of him five minutes later.

"Sure thing," America responds with a gentle smile, waiting for England to take a few bites before talking again. "I wanted to ask you something, and it's gonna sound stupid, and you'll probably call me an idiot for it, but..."

England cocks his head to the side and smirks. "I already think you're an idiot. Nothing is going to change my opinion now. What's the question?"

America purses his lips and puts his elbows on the table wistfully, not caring about manners or etiquette right now. "Is the world really worth saving?"

England struggles to swallow part of his sandwich and coughs. "I beg your pardon?"

"I told you you'd think it's dumb."

"I didn't say that. I'm just asking that you clarify what you meant."

"The world we live in... It's so full of anger, hate, violence, division—you name it. So, is it really worth saving? Let's say we do put a stop to whatever is going on. Who's to say it won't happen again in five years, or ten years, or twenty years? How many times are we going to have to go back and fix things? How many nuclear apocalypses will we prevent, until we decide it's all a lost cause?"

England leans back and considers the question with sincere thought, gaze set on the floor. "Alfred... I understand where you're coming from. It's not an ideal world, and it never will be, but there are still things worth fighting for. Our peoples—while they can be capable of doing terrible things, they can also be a source of beauty, and the same can be said for the nations. I remember when right after the Cold War ended, you invited Russia to come see a show on Broadway with you. I remember how after the second World War, you rekindled your relationship with Japan, and today, you're both close friends, and I have learned, in my all too many years, that even after times of true adversity and hardship, it is possible to find peace, at least in some small way. Because of that, I intend to do whatever I must to make certain we will endure this, even if I have to rewind time a hundred times over."

"I had a feeling you'd give that kind of answer," America says with a very soft and short-lived laugh.

England reaches across the table and squeezes his arm in reassurance. Then, the older man's phone rings for what feels like the thousandth time that day. "My apologies, Alfred. It's Yao."

"What does Yao want? Go ahead and pick it up."

England nods and brings his cellphone up to his ear. "Hello? Is everything—? Oh, no. I'm terribly sorry for the trouble… Thank you, I appreciate it… Yes, I'm with Alfred at the Starbucks on forty-seventh street… Thank you again."

Well, that didn't sound good, America thinks. "What happened?"

"It's nothing. Peter was wandering about on his own again. Honestly, I thought I was finished with raising children. Yao offered to escort him here," England explains, rushing to eat the rest of his sandwich.

"We can't have him clinging to us all day. Can't you send him home?"

"Yes, I'll arrange for a flight to get him out of our hair. You used to be attached to my hip as well, in case you've already forgotten."

"I've tried to forget," America says out of habit but feels bad when he sees the look on England's face afterward. He considers apologizing, but it might sound like he's apologizing for the Revolution, which he would never do, so he doesn't say anything at all.

"Nooooo! Let me go! I don't want to stay with Jerk Eng—Arthur!"

A wriggling and squealing Sealand gets dragged by his arm into the Starbucks by China's unyielding grasp, and when he's close to their table, England grabs Sealand by the opposite wrist and has him firmly sit down next to him.

"You've been nothing but a pest today," England remarks in that eerily calm yet strict way of his. "You should be at home. I have important matters to tend to."

Sealand huffs dramatically but doesn't give England another reason to yell at him. He sits still with a sullen air and decides to sulk instead.

"I'll be going, then," China says with a brief wave of the hand at the three of them. He's about to turn away when he draws his brows together and suddenly looks at America. He steps closer and stares at his neck, intrigued. "What happened to you?"

America tries to look down at his neck and see what China is talking about, and when that doesn't work, he looks at his reflection with the aid of his blackened phone screen. It seems he didn't walk away unscathed from his earlier scuffle with Russia after all. "Oh, you mean the bruises? Arthur attacked me. You know how it goes."

Feeling thoroughly insulted, England gawks at America and the purplish blue splotches riddling the younger nation's skin. "I didn't do that. I would _never_ —"

"I know, dude. I was just kidding."

China rolls his eyes at them and touches America's neck. When he removes his hand, the bruises are gone—completely healed.

America brings his own hand up to touch the spot and smiles warmly, feeling a little stir of hope that, yes, this world is still good at its core. "Thanks, Yao. You can heal just about anything, huh?"

"Not everything," China say, nodding at America's gratitude. "Well, goodbye, and keep an eye on your children, Arthur. You know what happens when you don't," he adds, lightly, careful to make sure England knows he's not trying to upset him. He's just teasing.

"Why don't I have any wicked powers?" Sealand asks with a whine, and England swiftly covers the boy's mouth with his hand, quieting him.

"Hush," England hisses with a whisper. "We're in public. Behave."

They arrange for Sealand to go home, and even though England would have liked another moment or two to relax and finish his tea, he has no choice but to stand up and make sure Sealand gets home safely without causing any other problems.

In the meantime, America heads over to the apartment he keeps maintained for when he has to stay in New York, which is often. After a quick train ride, he's there, and he texts England to come and swing by when he's done with his babysitting duties. Tomorrow will be a new day, and they can continue their investigation in the morning. Tonight, they've earned themselves a break.

* * *

The apartment is cramped, but England doesn't complain when he arrives. He lets America take his coat and gets comfortable on the couch, since America doesn't have a spare room here. He's pleasantly surprised when America brings him a thermos full of freshly brewed tea, and together, they watch some TV before England, unsurprisingly, falls asleep halfway through an episode of some show about zombies taking over the world.

"Such an old man," America quietly laughs at him before throwing a blanket over the ex-empire and turning off the TV. He, too, is more tired than he'd like to admit. He takes a quick shower, changes into something more comfortable, brushes his teeth, and calls it a night. As soon as he climbs into bed, his body seems twice as heavy, and he falls asleep within a few minutes.

He wakes to the sound of sparrows fighting over a piece of bread right outside of his bedroom window. The sun feels so comforting and lovely on his face, and he doesn't want to imagine a life without it. His neighbor's kids stomp around on the other side of the wall as they get ready for school, and America lies in bed for an extra fifteen minutes before getting up.

When he shuffles into his slippers and makes it to the living room, England is already up and on the phone with someone again, a cup of steaming tea in front of him. America considers eavesdropping, but he won't be any good at that until he has some coffee.

He steps into the kitchen only to find his coffee has been already made and is waiting for him on the table, still hot. He thanks his lucky stars England didn't go as far as to make him breakfast. He takes a sip of the coffee, and it tastes just as it should, untarnished despite being subjected to England's tampering.

He makes himself and England some scrambled eggs and bacon because that's about as advanced as his breakfast making skills are. He also sets out an orange for them each because if they're going to be running back and forth in this cold winter air for the second consecutive day, they could use the extra vitamin C to keep them from getting some kind of plague or catching a cold.

England finishes on the phone just as America is putting food on their plates.

"We'll eat, and then we're fast forwarding to Sunday night," England announces, wooden chair scraping the floor as he pulls it out from the table and sits.

"Why? I thought—"

"Now that France has secured his weapon stocks, we're going with him to the base where this all supposedly started. We'll stake-out the area and see what happens."

"And what if we miscalculate something and get killed before you can rewind time again?"

"If all goes well, we won't have to rewind time at all," England states, sounding more confident than he has any right to sound. The amount of things that could go wrong makes America feel sick to his stomach.

Still, America knows there's no stopping England when he's got his mind set on something, and he's the one with the powers, so he's the one calling the shots.

"If that's what you think is best, fine."

England seems to know America's not completely persuaded, and so, he mutters, "Trust me. I know you want to be the hero in every tale and think your way is always the best way, but I wouldn't have suggested this if I thought there was a better alternative."

America knows he should feel insulted, but instead, he feels a million types of sadness he didn't know existed before. He gnaws on a piece of bacon and has to do the impossible—hand over the controls to someone else.

"All right, lead the way, England."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Happy New Year, everyone! Here's the last part to this little fill. I hope you enjoy it, and many thanks to **heart-spade** on Tumblr for the request! If you're not following my blog, Mandelene Fics, you definitely should check it out! You'll be hearing more from me soon (*cough* I may have a FACE medical AU in the works for my next fill *cough*)!

* * *

France turns up with less flair than would normally be expected of him. It seems the thought of his nuclear weapons starting the apocalypse has made him obviously uneasy, and when he shows up at America's door, his hair lacks some of its usual shine and his eyes are dark with navy blue circles.

"France! It's been too long, since we've chilled together. Sorry our first talk in a while has to be about something this lame, but don't worry, England and I know what we're doing," America greets him, and he's shocked when the man walks inside and immediately hugs England as though he hasn't seen the island nation in twelve centuries or more.

" _Mon ami_."

England is not quite as stunned. "I know you're not responsible, France. It's quite all right. Stop making such a fuss over the whole thing."

"But I am responsible! They were my weapons, were they not? I could've... It is..."

"Stop giving yourself so much credit, you prat," England huffs, but it's not as venomous of a response as it was probably intended to be. "It could've happened to any one of us."

"You would have died! Because of me!" France howls into England's shoulder, and America is aghast at how they are managing to have a discussion without getting heated and clawing at each other's hair and throats.

England scoffs without much conviction. "I'm not that fragile, frog. We can still change this. You didn't intend for this to happen, and that's all that matters. Our goal now is to make certain the person who did initiate the conflict is brought to justice. You have nothing to apologize for."

America can't believe what he's seeing and hearing. He suspected England always had a soft spot for the man, much like how he has a soft spot for a certain ex-colony, but he's never seen it in action.

Despite not taking England's words completely to heart, France's hysterics do stop after another few moments of sobs and cries of remorse. It's a harrowing sight, but America also can't help but be giddy at how these two men he always thought of as mortal enemies can still be capable of mutual empathy.

There's a private jet prepared to pick them up from the airport and take them out into France's miniscule base in the Atlantic, so they catch a cab and make it to said airport within the hour. America wastes no time accepting the wine he's offered by a stewardess, because it's never a bad time to have a little liquor, especially considering the circumstances they're in. England, of course, slogs him over the head and says the last thing they need is to get drunk, but America insists it's impossible to get drunk off of wine and declares that if England is so conservative, that's his problem, and no one is forcing him to take part in it.

Being the man he is, England gets riled up at that and drinks some wine after all, just to prove to America he can be irresponsible as well. Fortunately, they get off of the jet with their good judgment in tact (as good as it can be, anyway).

France leads the way into the base, and England and America hover behind him, until they get stopped by one of the heads of the security personnel. There's a severe-looking woman sitting behind a big metal desk, and she says sharply and plainly, "No unauthorized personnel. Only Mr. Francis Bonnefoy is allowed access. You two will have to wait out here."

"They're with me," France says.

"I'm sorry, sir. No exceptions."

France clicks his tongue, but then puts his own powers to good use. He smiles kindly at the woman, looks deep into her eyes, and leans forward across the desk to be closer to her. His skills of persuasion and charisma are irresistible. They are—as is the same with all of the other nations' unique abilities—superhuman. And though they all know manipulation isn't morally right, they also know it's necessary for the greater good.

"But these are close friends of mine," France whispers at the woman, blinking wide blue eyes at her. "I can't go anywhere without them—they might miss me. I am, after all, a person who is often very dearly missed by others. How will they ever manage without me?"

Mesmerized and in a trance-like state, a slack smile stretches across the woman's now mannequin-esque face as she mumbles tenderly, "Go right on ahead, Mr. Bonnefoy. I agree, we can't let your friends stay behind."

France breaks their gaze, gives a coy chuckle, and watches as the security woman unlocks the door, leads them through the metal detectors, and gives them clearance to continue on toward the deeper storage rooms.

"Thank you, _ma cherie_ ," France says as they saunter away, a crooked smile on his lips. He beckons for America and England to hurry up and begins to guide them through the maze of guarded doors and heavy-duty machinery all about.

And then, despite the fact they must be well underground by now, England's phone goes off again.

England groans and reaches into his pocket with an uncharacteristic sluggishness. When he sees the caller, he turns red and angry for the umpteenth time this week. "Sealand? What is it now? I'm quite busy taking care of an important international crisis, if you don't mind!"

"The kid's bugging you again?" America asks from beside the older nation. "What's his deal?"

England raises a hand to shush America and frowns. "Slow down, Sealand. What are you doing at my house? I specifically told you to go straight home! How many times do you plan on disobeying me?"

Sealand raises his voice to a trembling tenor, and both America and France can hear his shouting even from a few feet away. "—never let me do anything! All you do is yell at me and say I'm a disappointment!"

"You're not a disappointment."

France makes a small, sympathetic noise and murmurs, "Trouble in paradise? Tell the child I'll show him around sometime."

Suddenly, England pales and his complexion becomes ashen. A coating of sweat appears on his forehead, and he reaches out a hand as if to steady himself. He tries to brace himself on something but topples forward abruptly.

America, having impressive reflexes thanks to his not-so-secret videogame obsession, shoots out an arm and catches England right before he hits the floor. While half of his brain is in full panic-mode, the other half is setting England gently on the ground and propping his head up by putting his messenger bag underneath it.

" _Mon Dieu_! What's wrong with him? _Angleterre_? _Angleterre_ , wake up!"

A couple of seconds pass, and England still doesn't stir. Beside him, his cellphone has died, either from a lack of battery strength or from being dropped on the ground. His breathing is heavy and labored, but America is thankful for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

"England? Come on," America murmurs, leaning over his prone body and fanning the man's sweaty face. He pulls a bottle of water out from his own bag and sprinkles some water over him, and it seems to do the trick because England lets out a low moan. "England? Please…"

Another ten seconds pass, and England's eyes finally flutter open. He's dazed, but otherwise unharmed from the incident.

"W-What?" he rasps, pushing himself up, but America shoves him back down firmly.

"Stay put. You fainted like a little girl just a few minutes ago," America tells him before urging him to take a sip of water. "Are ya still feelin' dizzy?"

England shakes his head lightly. "I'm fine. We need to get moving… Something isn't right."

"All the more reason to stay put," America counters. "If you're getting bad vibes from something, we should figure out what it is before we launch ourselves into another time period."

France agrees, but England ignores them both and stands up, swatting away America and France's hands as they try to support him. "We're fast-forwarding to Sunday night now, right before midnight."

America grips his old mentor by the shoulders tightly and scowls. "No, England. You just collapsed, and using your powers now is going to—"

But it's too late. The world stretches and contracts beneath them, and America's disdain begins to get the best of him. He can't believe England would be so stupid as to push himself like this, especially since they don't know what the future has in store for them after all of the past events they've tinkered with.

As everything stops, America sees England fall to the ground again, except, this time, he lands on his knees. He isn't getting up.

"You dumbass! Are you trying to get yourself killed?" America screams at him from behind before grabbing England's shoulder and twisting him around to face him. "Y-You…"

England is even paler than before, which didn't seem possible until now. He takes in a large gasp of breath, clutches at his dress shirt as though it's suffocating him, and says thinly, "Someone else is traveling through time."

America looks toward where France is standing a few feet away and is pleased to see that the Frenchman is just as confused as he is.

"What do you mean someone else is time-traveling? How is that possible? You're the only one with this power," America snaps.

"Apparently, I'm not. I could feel someone fighting back and resisting, as if trying to move time right as I was moving it."

"So, what day is it now?"

England thinks for a moment, resting his head on the tiles beneath them. "I-I don't know," he mumbles before slumping over and falling unconscious yet again.

"Goddamn it!" America growls, rolling England over onto his back. "What are we supposed to do now?"

France looks around as though expecting an answer to appear. It's silent for a minute or two, and France is pacing back and forth when he suddenly snaps his fingers and says, "There should be internet access down here. Do you have your phone on you, _Amerique_? You should be able to find out the time and date."

America rips his eyes away from England's deteriorating condition and checks his iPhone. "There's a password on the Wi-Fi."

France walks over and takes the phone from him for a second, trying a few passwords before finally managing to guess the correct one on his last attempt. "Here. I've got it."

A quick look at his phone's calendar and a Google search to confirm their suspicions reveals that it's already one in the morning on the last Monday of their lives.

"Shit. The first missile is supposed to be launched in an hour," America mutters, hands clenched into fists. "And this is where it all starts."

France hugs the wall behind him, suddenly feeling faint as well. "Well, we'll stop them. Whoever launched the missile will have to come through here first. We'll lock the door and wait it out."

"But if we fuck up, we don't have any way of reversing time again because England's out cold. One more trip through time might really kill him this time," America says grimly, smoothing out the hair sticking to England's forehead.

"So, we have to get it right the first time," France states with forced assurance. "We can manage it."

America's not as optimistic, but doubt isn't going to solve anything. He checks England over again, and his condition hasn't gotten any better, but it's not worse either. He sits on the floor next to him and waits while France guards the door. The anticipation is palpable, because if China or Russia somehow make it through that iron door, will they be able to take them on?

"France, no matter what happens… I want you to know you've been a good friend to me over the years. I know stuff gets said at meetings and whatnot, but… I really do appreciate having had you in my life," America murmurs, flushing pink. He never thought he would ever have to be this sentimental.

France blinks in surprise and lets out a long, tense breath. "It has been a pleasure for me as well, _mon ami_."

There's nothing left to be said. America has gotten all of the essential lovey-dovey talk out of the way… Well… He looks down at England and wonders if the man knows how much he cares about him.

Of course he does. He's England, after all. He's got the biggest ego in Europe, and yet… America can't help but think they've never really tied up their loose ends.

A sudden BANG startles him, and he and France immediately poise themselves to attack the intruder. They glue their eyes to the locked door when, in fact, they should be looking in the opposite direction.

Because right there, after seemingly materializing out of nowhere, stands Sealand, shoulders squared and brimming with pride.

America is sure his heart drops down by his feet. "Sealand?"

Glittering, wide eyes look up at him accompanied by a frown. "What are you doing here?" Sealand asks, concealing something against his chest—a book.

"We should be asking you that question," America says with a sharp voice. "What're you holding there?"

Like a deer caught in headlights, Sealand scampers back a few strides and hides the title of the book behind his arms. "N-Nothing."

"I don't like being lied to."

"I'm not lying! This is my book! I found it."

"Really? Then, why can't I see it?"

France takes this as his cue to step in. He slides past America and over to Sealand with a well-rehearsed smile to put his charisma to good use again. "Peter, _mon chou_ , let me see what you have there."

Sealand tries his hardest to resist, and his willpower is commendable, but in the end, he isn't nearly strong enough to fight off France's coaxing. Limply, like a ragdoll, he drops the book on the floor and looks off into the distance with blank eyes, submitting.

"I'll be taking that," France says with a smirk, plucking the leather book off of the ground. It's incredibly old, and much of the front cover has been worn away from use. "I know what this is. One of _Angleterre's_ magic books."

America curses under his breath and snatches the book away from France, and just like that, Sealand's eyes come back to life, and he's all right again. "What were you doing with this? Why would you be stealing England's books? You know he's into some creepy nonsense, and he definitely wouldn't want you messing around with it. Wait… Are _you_ the one who starts the nuclear war? You infiltrated France's weapons and used them? You almost destroyed the entire globe singlehandedly?"

Frightened by America's deep, menacing tone, Sealand's face becomes covered in tears and snot runs from his sniveling nose.

"Stop crying. You're in big trouble—like, military tribunal trouble," America hisses at him, grabbing the boy by the collar of his shirt. "What were you thinking?"

Sealand wails and wails. He offers some sort of explanation, but he is incomprehensible through his sobs.

"Peter, what have you done?" a new voice asks, and America turns around to discover that England is up and standing on his own feet again. He pushes past France and America and crouches before the crying boy. "You owe us an explanation. Were you the one who was time-travelling?"

Sealand nods his head miserably and wipes his face on his sleeve.

"How did you get in here?"

"T-teleported."

"And what did you plan to do once you got here?"

"I wanted to shoot a rocket into the sky because Uncle France told me he'd show me how rockets work at the last meeting, and he told me about this place, and—"

England spins around and glares at France. "You put these silly ideas in his mind? Why didn't you mention this earlier? I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

Trying to defend himself, France puts a hand on his hip and snarls, "How was I supposed to know the child would take the invitation so seriously? I had completely forgotten about it!"

After a loud sniffle, Sealand explains, "I just wanted to have powers and be important like you guys, so I took the magic book because I remembered England told me you didn't have to have inherent powers like him to time-travel. You just have to drink a potion with shrivelfigs, fluxweed, belladonna, and some other plants that aren't hard to find, and there's an enchantment for teleporting."

America peers at England over the rim of his glasses. "I hope you're happy now! You let this kid get into your weird, medieval witchcraft stuff. That's why I never went into your cellar when I was living with you as a kid. I had enough sense to know you were nuts."

England has to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at America. He tries to focus all of his anger on Sealand at the moment. "You know those methods are only temporary, not permanent, Peter. There's also quite an important distinction between firing test rockets and _actual_ rockets. What you did was not only incredibly stupid, but immensely dangerous. If you wanted to have the privilege of being given a tour of this facility, you should have asked France to supervise you rather than playing with weapons you know absolutely nothing about! Nuclear missiles and rockets are not toys, Peter! Their use has great consequences! I thought you knew better than to resort to something this foolish!"

Sealand cries with more fervor, face buried in his hands.

"And the gall of firing at the British Isles rather than at France. I thought I had taught you better," England jokes darkly. "As much as I fight with Scotland, I would never want such catastrophe to come upon him."

"I'm s-sorry!"

England sighs. "I suppose this could have been much worse. What matters is we are all safe."

"Hold up! You're going to let this go? Just like that?" America gasps, leaning forward to make sure he heard what he thought he heard correctly. "You still haven't forgiven me for dumping your tea in Boston Harbor, and that was just _tea_!"

"That was another matter entirely, and how I discipline Sealand is none of your concern, but if you must feel a sense of justice in order to find closure, it'll interest you to know Sealand will be spending the foreseeable future helping Scotland maintain his fields."

Sealand hunches his back and protests with a quivering chin, "No! Don't send me to Uncle Scotland. Please! Anything but that! I'll clean your whole house. I'll fix your garden—anything!"

"My decision is final. Now let's get out of here. We're technically standing on French soil, and I can't bear the thought of staying any longer," England gripes, purposefully pretending not to see the searing look in France's eyes.

"Someone's feeling better and back to his snarky and bitter self," America mumbles, yelping when England smacks him in his side. "Just stating the facts, is all."

Mission accomplished, apparently. That's one potential nuclear apocalypse they can cross off the list.

What a week it has been.

* * *

"Yo, Canada! You home?"

America's answer comes in the form of the front door swinging open, and a semi-visible Canada guiding him into the living room. "I didn't think you'd be visiting again so soon."

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Canada shakes his head and fashions a compassionate smile onto his lips. "No, no, it's okay. Did everything work out between you and England?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. He still hates my guts, but he hates my guts a little less, if you know what I mean," America drones, plopping himself onto the couch with a contented sigh. "Ahh, it feels so good to just unwind. I brought along a videogame Japan gave me a few days ago. Wanna give it a try?"

Canada's figure becomes more solid, and now, he is completely visible. "Sure! But do you want something to eat first?"

"Duh! You know me too well, man. I don't want you slaving away in the kitchen though. How 'bout we order some pizza?"

"Can we get some burgers and poutine instead? There's this new restaurant in town I've been wanting to order from."

America laughs heartily and throws his arms out to the sides, stretching them. "Whatever you like, bro. I love some good ol' poutine every now and then."

"Okay, cool."

"Coolio."

"Cool beans," Canada says with a snicker, trying to outdo his counterpart.

"Cool cuts."

"You just made that one up. It's not real. You lose."

America raises a brow and scoffs. "Excuse me, but I _always_ win. Now hurry up and order the food, so we can play."

"Are you sure you're okay? You seem a little too happy."

"Can't a guy be positive every now and then? What's so suspicious about that?"

"Nothing… It's just not often that you're actually happy instead of pretending to be happy," Canada mumbles quietly, and America doesn't seem to catch the last part of the sentence, thankfully.

Or maybe he does, because after a few seconds of heavy silence, America says, "It's a crazy world, Matt, but it's not so bad when I'm chilling with you. There've been moments when I've thought 'screw it, let the world burn for all I care,' but then I remember my favorite, adorkable Canadian bro, and I know I'll put out the globe's fires every time if it means we get to play more videogames and eat the best foods on the continent together."

"Thanks… I think. Then again, I am your only brother, unless you count England, but he's not really—"

"You know what I mean."

Canada nods with a small laugh and goes into the kitchen to find the menu to that restaurant he mentioned. When he's out of ear shot of America he grins to himself and leans against the counter, a warm feeling bubbling in his chest at being given so much attention lately.

And he whispers, so softly that he almost doesn't hear it himself, "I know exactly what you mean, America."


End file.
